Tom Slade at Black Lake Part 3

"Well, that's what I thought," Mr. Burton said encouragingly. "You must go slow and take it easy and pretty soon you'll be fit and trim."

"I got to thank you," Tom said with his characteristic blunt simplicity.

"I don't know what we should do in the spring rush without your familiar knowledge of the camp, Tom," Mr. Burton said.

"I think he thinks more of the office than he does of the scouts,"

Margaret ventured to observe. She was sitting alongside Mr. Burton's desk awaiting his leisure, and Tom was standing awkwardly close by.

"I suppose it's because they don't grow fast enough," Mr. Burton laughed; "they can't keep up with him. To my certain knowledge young Peewee, as they call him, hasn't grown a half an inch in two years. It isn't because he doesn't eat, either, because I observed him personally when I visited camp."

"Oh, he eats _terrifically_," Margaret said.

"I like the troop better than anything else," Tom said.

"Well, I guess that's right, Tom," Mr. Burton observed; "old friends are the best."

He gathered up an armful of papers and handed them to Tom who went about his duties.

The day was long and the routine work tedious. The typewriter machine rattled drowsily and continuously on, telling troops here and there that they could have camp accommodations on this or that date. Tom pored over the big map, jotting down a.s.signments and stumblingly dictated brief letters which Miss Ellison's readier skill turned out in improved form.

He was sorry that it was not Friday so that he might go to troop meeting that night. It was only Tuesday and so there were three long, barren nights ahead of him, and to him they seemed like twenty nights. All the next day he worked, making a duplicate of the big map for use at the camp, but his fingers were not steady and the strain was hard upon his eyes. He went home (if a hall-room in a boarding house may be called home) with a splitting headache.

On Wednesday he worked on the map and made the last a.s.signment of tent accommodations. Temple Camp was booked up for the season. It was going to be a lively summer up there, evidently. One troop was coming all the way from Idaho--to see Peewee Harris eat pie, perhaps. I can't think for what other reason they would have made such a journey.

"And _you_ will live in the pavilion in all your glory, won't you?"

Margaret teased him. "I suppose you'll be very proud to be a.s.sistant to Uncle Jeb. I don't suppose you'll notice poor _me_ if I come up there."

"I'll take you for a row on the lake," Tom said. That was saying a good deal, for _him_.

On Thursday he sent an order for fifteen thousand wooden plates, which will give you an idea of how they eat at Temple Camp. He attended to getting the licenses for the two launches and sent a letter up to old Uncle Jeb telling him to have a new springboard put up and notifying him that the woods property now belonged to the camp. It was a long slow day and a longer, slower night.

Once, and only once, since his return, he had tried the movies. The picture showed soldiers in the trenches and the jerky scenes and figures made his eyes ache and set his poor sick nerves on edge. Once he had _almost_ asked Margaret if he might go over to East Bridgeboro and see her. He was glad when Friday morning came, and the day pa.s.sed quickly and gayly, because of the troop meeting that night. He counted the hours until eight o'clock.

When at last he set out for the troop room he found that he had forgotten his scout badge and went back after it. He was particular always to wear this at meetings, because he wished to emphasize there, that he was still a scout. He was always forgetting something these days. It was one of the features of sh.e.l.l-shock. It was like a wound, only you could not _see_ it....

CHAPTER VII

JUST NONSENSE

How should those scouts know that Tom Slade had been counting the days and hours, waiting for that Friday night? They were not mind readers.

They knew that Tom Slade, big business man that he was, had much to occupy him.

And they too, had much to occupy them. For with the coming of Spring came preparations for the sojourn up to camp where they were wont to spent the month of August. At Temple Camp troops were ever coming and going and there were new faces each summer, but the Bridgeboro Troop was an inst.i.tution there. It was because of his interest in this troop, and particularly in Tom's reformation, that Mr. John Temple of Bridgeboro, had founded the big camp in the Catskills. There was no such thing as favoritism there, of course, but it was natural enough that these boys, hailing from Mr. Temple's own town, where the business office of the camp was maintained, should enjoy a kind of prestige there. Their two chief exhibits (A and B) that is, Roy Blakeley and Peewee Harris strengthened this prestige somewhat, and their nonsense and banter were among the chief features of camp entertainment.

Temple Camp without P. Harris, some one had once said, would be like mince pie without any mince. And surely Peewee had no use for mince pie without any mince.

"Oh, look who's here!" Roy Blakeley shouted, as Tom quietly took a seat on the long bench, which always stood against the wall. "Toma.s.so, as I live! I thought you'd be down at the Opera House to-night."

"I don't care thirty cents about the movies," Tom said, soberly.

"You should say thirty-three cents, Toma.s.so," Roy shot back at him: "don't forget the three cents war tax."

"Are you going to play that geography game?" Tom asked hopefully.

"Posilutely," said Roy; "we'll start with me. Who discovered America?

Ohio. Correct."

"What?" yelled Peewee.

"Columbus is in Ohio; it's the same thing--only different," said Roy; "you should worry. How about it, Toma.s.so?"

Tom was laughing already. It would have done Mr. Burton and Mr.

Ellsworth good to see him.

"We were having a hot argument about the army, before you came in,"

Connie Bennett said. "Peewee claims the infantry is composed of infants...."

"Sure," Roy vociferated, "just the same as the quartermaster is the man who has charge of all the twenty-five cent pieces. Am I right, Lucky Luke? Hear what Lucky Luke says? I'm right. Correct."

"Who's going to boss the meeting to-night?" Doc Carson asked.

"How about you, Tom?" Grove Bronson inquired.

Tom smiled and shook his head. "I just like to watch you," said he.

"It's your job," Doc persisted, "as long as Mr. Ellsworth is away."

There was just the suggestion of an uncomfortable pause, while the scouts, or most of them, waited. For just a second even Roy became sober, looking inquiringly at Tom.

"I'd rather just watch you," Tom said, uneasily.

"He doesn't care anything about the scouts any more," Dorry Benton piped up.

"Since he's a magnet," Peewee shouted.

"You mean a magnate," Doc said.

"What difference does it make what I mean?" the irrepressible Peewee yelled.

"As long as you don't mean anything," Roy shouted. "Away dull care; let's get down to business. To-morrow is Sat.u.r.day, there's no school."

"There's a school, only we don't go to it," Peewee shouted.

"For that take a slap on the wrist and repeat the scout law nineteen times backward," Roy said. "Who's going to boss this meeting?